Vanilla and daisies
by Puttefujs
Summary: When I, in a bravado every member of the male gender has to perform once or twice in their lifetime, asked if I should 'beat' them up, Marco shook violently on his head. 'It will only make you the same as them,' he said. 'I don't want you to change, Jean. You're fine just the way you are.' I've always wondered what he meant by saying that.


**Pairing: Freckled Jesus x horse (Marco x Jean). Brief Jean x Armin. **

**Rating: T **

**Words: 5,637k. **

**Warnings: Mentions of bullying. Pshylogical and hurtful themes. **

**Summary; When I, in a bravado every member of the male gender has to perform once or twice in their lifetime, asked if I should 'beat' them up, Marco shook violently on his head. ''It will only make you the same as them,'' he said. ''I don't want you to change, Jean. You're fine just the way you are.''**

**I've always wondered what he meant by saying that. **

**- Enjoy. **

I once had a friend named Marco. He was a victim - nearly beaten every day when he attended school. Not that he attended school very often anyhow. But when I smiled at him, he smiled again. He was probably the sweetest person I've ever known. But I was taught to let it go when Marco stopped showing up at school. When he made his last visit, and the teacher stood with angry eyes and said; ''Marco is not here anymore.'' She never told us where he went.

But I knew. I saw it - I saw the fear in his eyes when school was to begin, and all he pined for was to come home again - every time. I would never see him again. I was taught to let that go. To show my back instead and ignore the blatant problem that occurred. Nobody really spoke of Marco since then. Not even those who used to call him names, follow him into the bathroom where unspoken things happened. I still go there once in a while, dismissing class with the excuse of having the need to release the content in my bladder.

But when I stand in front of the bathroom stalls, I remember how the teachers - and how my parents told me to let it go. I never did. Marco's disappearance was not in vain. To me, it was a message. It was also a clear sign that things are not how they are supposed to be, despite parents and people saying against it. When I look into the mirror, the hollow eyes that are mine meet me, and suddenly, I know. The world is how it is supposed to be, but the people are not. I have become faulted and, mildly spoken, a completely wired mess. I follow the path of humans, the path we have forged through time. It is the wrong path. But has anyone ever done something to change that, I wonder.

Of course, there has been varied of people to outshine the rest with fierce courage, sure, but as well as there is courage, fear will always dwell amidst it somewhere – sometimes unseen, but continuously present. I felt it too. Back then, it was when I could see the ripped guys following Marco in the halls, how I wanted to pace their heels and do something about their ominous intentions – but didn't dare to. The fear was dominating and difficult to prevent from perking at the surface of my courage. I did nothing but to stare into the content of my locker, and when I walked past the toilets, I could hear Marco call out for help. I would wait there. Then the guilty ones would appear at the door, the main culprit being a guy named Jonas. They would walk out with their smug smiles and cunning laughs, and I would sneak behind them and into the stall where Marco would always be. Marco, soaked in water from his head to his waist, and sometimes they would splash water on his pants too – to make it looked like he had urinated in his underwear.

Sometimes, he was expressionless; sometimes he was crying tears and snot – howling with a desperate and fearful tone looming in the undertones of his pleas to make the torture stop. He would grab a fistful of my shirt and hide his face in my chest, shoulders shaking as he cried himself hoarse. And I let him – every time, because that was what I could do for him.

Once when I, in a bravado every member of the male gender has to perform once or twice in their lifetime, asked if I should 'beat' them up, Marco shook violently on his head. ''It will only make you the same as them,'' he said. I would look at him pointedly, but questioning. ''If I can't verbally change their mind, then I will have to beat some common sense into them since they do not handle reasoning,'' I answered. At this, Marco shrugged. ''I guess you are right, but I still don't think it's a good idea,'' he sighed – and then continued; ''I don't want you to change, Jean. You're fine just the way you are.''

I've always wondered what he meant by saying that.

* * *

Years later, I still go to the same school, in the same class – with the same people. I've always been furious at the people who once bullied Marco, but I'm not furious anymore. Sometimes, I have the brief idea that I've forgotten how to feel. I'm chased by the past, I think. Marco has become my deity, even though I don't know where he is. Or if he even is anywhere – alive. I wander through the months in a mindless state, where the only inspiration for me to keep going is that I'll do what Marco couldn't. Sometimes, I fear that I'm mistaken. Perhaps Marco is somewhere, living a life better than when he was here. But it's only good if that's the case. That doesn't change the fact that I'm wasting my time trying to repair what was broken back then. How Marco was mentally and physically pulled apart by people who didn't know any better. I know that what I'm doing is wrong, and that Marco will be furious at me if he ever is to find out. I'm not becoming one of _them_, but I've changed. Definitely for worse.

It goes like a tour in a rollercoaster, just like my thoughts. One day, I feel alive – I feel like I can manage. The next day, I feel like it's not worth it. Humanity is not worth it. But despite everything – and everything humanity has done, I will have to focus on what good humanity has brought. Marco, for an example, is a good human being. Or was. Something swells in my chest whenever I think of him, because he was anything but a bad person – but he was tortured by people who were hateful, or in reality, furiously mad at themselves. A person in the right state of mind, a person who loves him or herself – or loves humanity, wouldn't bring pain out on others. Someone who has respect for his or her environment. For him or herself. I can always tell that when a person gets sad or angered, it's because they are upset or discomforted in the first place, usually by an earlier occurrence, something personal or because of themselves. Self-esteem is a complicated thing, and it's different how people handle it taking a dive or peering upwards on the scale of the 'how I feel about myself and my attributes' thermometer. Someone bottles it up. Someone brings it out on other people. Someone loathes oneself with guilt. Right now, I feel cold.

But I don't bring it out on others as I sit in the classroom in the lunch break - when Armin chatters about something he read in a book yesterday. I don't, because I dare to confront myself with the complications that I know are haunting me. I dare perceive reasoning, and I dare to restrain myself when I in reality want to yell and go mad. Because they don't deserve it, my friends, the teacher and the people surrounding me. These problems are my own demons – and no one else's. And even though it hurts, and even though humanity continues to hurt me - to hurt everyone, I still love. I love humanity, and I want to fight for it. I want to fight for myself – and for Marco. And as one of Marco's pests passes my table and lingers there, giving me and Armin an analyzing stare with those hateful eyes, I'm not mad at him. I pity him.

Armin stops talking, and he looks at Jonas in a weird way, dropping the subject he was occupied keeping affront. That is when I realize what is going on. Right when I see the sudden smug look in Jonas´ eyes, and how he holds his chin high in a defiant, better-knowing gesture. Armin has been here from the beginning, he was a friend of Marco, too, but was also very afraid of the consequences that could follow if defending him. Lately, Armin has been staying at the school every day when the lessons are already over, excusing himself by saying that he has someone to meet. It started three weeks ago. The next morning, he will look exhausted when he arrives at school, plopping down in his seat in the corner of the classroom. Sometimes, he is sporting dark marks on his skin. Eren and Mikasa will look confused and worried, hovering around him to comfort him. But Armin is stubborn, and he knows something I don't. He knows many things that other people may never spare a thought to or at. Two days ago, I finally asked whom he had to meet every time. He never really told me who, and stalked off with a firm ''I really have to go now, it is important,'' instead – with a familiar look in his eyes. That's also a reason as to why I admire him. He's brave, even though he doesn't know it. Braver than what I will ever be.

I deem myself stupid for not having known or realized why that look was harboring his eyes back then, and when Jonas continues to stand there, this peculiar feeling grows snug inside my stomach. ''Don't forget It,'' Jonas says to Armin, and Armin's expression is unmoving – neutral as he shakes his head. ''Good,'' Jonas then says, sparing a cunning grin. I can't take it anymore. I'm sorry, Marco, I've always been the bad guy. I should have done something, but I never did. I could have done something to prevent you from disappearing – but I didn't do anything at all. And even though I know that it wasn't my fault, I continue to blame myself every single day. It has to stop.

''Hey, Jonas…,'' I say, and my voice is foreign in my own ears – it's dark and dreadful with something venomous dripping off said words. ''Can I talk to you for a bit?'' I ask politely in a strained voice. Now, I wonder what it feels like to fear. I can't feel it. I don't remember it.

* * *

Jonas gives me a peculiar look, wondering from where my sudden change of attitude must have emerged. He looks a bit put off, but then he just shrugs, saying; ''sure, _jeans_,'' and I realize that the man before me really is an immature, pitiful idiot. But I'm not angry, and I don't seek revenge. What I want is to teach him a lesson. I raise myself with a sudden motion and stomp out of the classroom, motioning for him to follow suit. Surprisingly, he does follow me. ''Do you know where Marco went?'' Jonas asks once I'm out of the classroom. My body goes rigid right in the middle of the hall. Why.

I've rarely spoken with Jonas before, because he's not worth it. We have nothing to do with each other – and frankly, I don't want anything to do with him. He really isn't worth it. An idiot is one who doesn't comply with reasoning or truth, because he or she is caught in shit to the throat, containing so much hatred because they're mad at someone or themselves. Jonas is the biggest idiot of them all, but also the saddest.

''What about him?'' I turn around, and this is the first time I've faced him directly – even though I have to look up in order to look him in the eyes. His eyes are callous, but surprised. The surprised look is quickly gone and replaced by a sad, sad sight – his eyes now glazed with faked entertainment. Jonas bares his teeth in a broad smile as he releases a booming laugh, continuing until nearly shedding tears as he claps a hand onto his thigh, grinning smugly as I stand in silence and eye him with squinted eyes. He's such a mess.

'_'What about him?_ I thought he'd be hiding 'round your house for all these years or something, that little sick faggot,'' Jonas barks, eyes widening as he puts extra emphasis on his last words, expecting a reaction from me. But I don't bat an eye, and I don't move an inch from my spot. People are gathering around us, curious about Jonas´ sudden outburst. When I don't say anything, Jonas continues; ''don't tell me you forgot about him? How he looked at you with those nasty eyes – it was _obvious_!'' Jonas keeps on laughing between his words, nearly running out of breath. What an idiot. ''And you still stayed around him, didn't you? Maybe you're a faggot, too? I bet the little fucker is hiding under your bed, molesting you in your sleep!'' He pauses. ''He was not right in his head, you know. He didn't belong here. And while I punched the living fuck out of him, he kept calling your name. He kept calling for help, hoping that his little lover would come and rescue him. He's sick I his head, you know? He's sick.'' The people around us doesn't say anything. I can feel their glares bore into the back of my skull, expecting a reaction.

''Do you know where he went? You'd know, wouldn't you? Faggot,'' Jonas spits and god, he's frames a whole another level of obnoxious. ''I'm sure he's dead, you know. Probably ditched somewhere on a roadside,'' he now suggest, tilting his head as he waves a hand in the air as if stating the obvious. ''I'm glad he's gone, but he probably infected you with his homo – better be careful,_ Jeans_,'' oh _god_, when does this asswagon stop talking?

''Jonas,'' I interrupt him just as he's about to fire off another hasty remark, ''your constant yapping lowers the IQ of the whole school.'' The hall falls silent, and I take a step forward, face neutral as ever. ''You're pitiful, and you're always angry. You're condemning – and I'm sure that you'll end on the roadside begging for money when you one day grow up. But I'm sure that when that day comes, you'll still be the same as now – because you'll never reach a state of maturity. You're a child. No, wait – that would be an insult to the children of the world, wouldn't it?'' Now I'm the one to tilt my head to the side, and I can hear how he's grinding his teeth, see how his fists are balling and how he pushes his chest forward. At least I've got his attention now. ''I've always wondered why you had the urges to torment and ruin Marco's life – and for what reason? Was Marco a bad guy? Did he ever oppress you? Did he even do something to you?'' Now my voice is growing louder, and I furrow my brows. I can feel something churn in my stomach.

''Marco was a great guy and one hell of a good friend. He was good to other people, always gentle and one of the bravest people I've ever known. And he's why I'm standing here today, confronting you with your fucking shit, you fucking asswipe. Your shit-gape of a mouth is spilling those words because you're a pathetic coward, and because you find satisfaction in lowering other people in your imaginary hierarchy. But if you look around, do you recognize anyone here as your friends? Do you have friends? Do you think anyone would be friends with you – if not out of fear? You're not a bad person, but you're mind is as cloudy as the smoke from the pot you inhale in the evenings when you can't even stand yourself. You must really despise yourself, and I fucking know why, Jonas.''

I'm surprised though, because Jonas is unmoving – and the hall is still quiet. People are looking back and forth the two of us, now. I put a hand up to my chest, clenching the fabric of my shirt, because I feel like I'm on the edge of my life. ''Why _Marco_? Why _Armin_, now? Because they're quiet? Because they're intelligent? Because they're different from you? Because you're too narrow-minded to look past the tip of your nose? Because you have so much hatred inside you that you have to bring it out on other people?'' I can't stop now.

''I don't hate you, Jonas. I feel so fucking bad for you, because all I see is a boy who is too scared to confront the truth. You don't deserve that, and nobody does. But nobody deserves to be bullied either, or to be nagged into doing self-harm or wanting to commit suicide. It's not a cowardly thing to do – committing suicide, because what is the fucking worst thing is that someone or something made them think that'd be a necessary solution.''

I'm panting right now, and my throat is burning.

''The next time you lay a finger on another person like that,'' I snarl, ''come to me instead, and I will fucking end you.''

Jonas flinches a bit.

''It doesn't matter who you are or how bad you feel,'' I stand a little taller – my temples are throbbing, I can't hear anything but my own words. I remember the look on Armin's face from before, and the memory of Marco crying into my shirt. '' You do not under any circumstances bully anyone.''

I pause shortly.

''And you know what… Such actions will always cause a fucking lot of repercussions –'' I raise my fist,

'' – and consequences!''

Everything is quiet. The throbbing is replaced by the gnashing sound of when my knuckles connects to Jonas´ jaw, and the thud when his back hits the linoleum floor and his head tips and hits it twice like a jolly-doll.

* * *

Jonas didn't show up in the class next day, and not even the day after that either. A week later, the teacher stands with the same angry eyes as three years ago, concluding that Jonas is to transfer school, and will not be here anymore. Once more, I get the vague feeling of eyes boring into my skull, but as I crane my neck and look around in the class, everyone quickly looks away, down at their tables or at each other, exchanging considering looks. One person smiles, and another one blows out a heavy sigh. I guide my sight toward Armin two tables away from me. He's not smiling, but he doesn't look discomforted or enraged, either. When our eyes meet, he gives me a reassuring look.

* * *

''It's my fault,'' I say as I exhale a raspy breath, perceiving how a cloud of heat molds in front of my mouth. I'm standing outside, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. The weather is frigid and horrendous, but worthwhile, since it has come to a certain degree where nobody wants to be outside, and thus I can find peace behind the buildings of the school where the snow is still clean and not budged. ''You know,'' Armin says – he's standing right next to me, his blue eyes pacing along the sea of blinding snow ahead, ''I don't think that what you did was bad.'' I cock a brow at him, taking a long inhale of the cigarette nestled in the curve between two of my fingers. I'm a little surprised when Armin looks at me directly. He tugs lightly on the mitten on his left hand, fidgeting. ''Somehow, I think that was just what Jonas needed. It was what I needed. What you said was harsh – but it wasn't untrue. I don't hate Jonas either, but he is a thoughtless idiot…, who deserves a second chance – as much as everyone else does. He's taken his second chance by transferring school, now with your words in the back of his mind,'' he says softly, shrugging in a light way.

''I'm really grateful, Jean,'' he then says, and he smiles widely at me now. ''You're a very good person.'' I'm about to correct him, but he gets ahead of me – because he knows what I'll say, ''no, violence is not the answer – but there was more than just a punch in what you did. Marco would think the same, too. I know that. You have changed, Jean, because you have to. Because that's what we have to do. We evolve all the time – and if we don't, we won't get anywhere,'' Armin grants me a hard look now, brows furrowed. ''And you are a good person, Jean – and a good leader. You're not a coward – you've done something I've wanted to do for long. You've done something everyone haven't even dared to spare a thought to or at. Stop blaming yourself for something you can't help.''

I feel… different. Lighter. But not in a bad way. Armin reaches forward and locks his arms around my waist, hugging me tightly. It all feels surreal. ''Believe in yourself,'' the blonde murmurs against the rough fabric of my coat, sighing contently. ''Thanks, Armin,'' is all I can say. And now, I'm the one who brings my hands around him, embracing him like there's no tomorrow. ''Thank you,'' I whisper against his soft hair, resting my cheek against his scalp. ''You're welcome,'' he says.

* * *

From there on, five months passes. Nothing out of the norm has happened until now. It's not like I feel dreadful anymore – or lifeless. But there's still something missing, but I don't know what. Yet, of course, I do. But for that to be granted is not possible, after all, so I stick with what isn't surreal and out of this world. It's getting warmer and warmer, growth blossoming in the environment, and the air smells fresh and sometimes like faint vanilla. Spring break is near – today is the last day until we'll get a week of relaxation and whatever it brings.

I'm arguing with Eren right now, as per the usual, and he keeps telling me that the square root of twenty-five is four. ''Goddamit, Eren – it's fucking five,'' I snarl, palming my face with my right hand. He is just _unbelievable_. ''You're both stupid anyway,'' Mikasa, one of the girls who gets the highest grades in math, now calmly says, smiling. Armin is engulfed in the matter of reading a book, too busy to pay any attention to what is ongoing around him. ''See! Told you,'' Eren roars – truthfully not grasping what she really just had said, and now he's baring one of his boyish smiles. He receives a hit on the back of his head by Mikasa, who has rolled a magazine into a rear. ''Pay more attention in class, Eren,'' Mikasa now says, and Eren murmurs in embarrassment audibly.

* * *

When bell rings and a roar of joy fills the halls, the students mingle between one another, backpacks on their backs as they chatter and make their ways to the entrance. I bid my farewell to Armin, Eren and Mikasa, since I live in the other end of the city. I've chosen to walk home instead of using the school bus today. It may take a half hour to manage all the way home, but that's okay. I roll up the sleeves of my cardigan to enjoy the mild breezes dawning upon me as I tread upon the stone pavement. My shoulder bag is rutting softly against my hip for every step I take, and the air still smells fresh – a scent of faint vanilla lingering in the wind. When I pass the park, I see daisies scattered on the vibrant green lawn. There's something familiar about them. They remind me of someone.

A wave of nostalgia surges inside my mind, but I leave it be. I'm happy, right now. There's no need to think about anything else than the beautiful weather and the relaxation that waits ahead.

I have a lot of time to spend, and I don't need to be home until seven, so I take the earliest train to one of the bigger cities where I know the good cinemas are located.

* * *

Surprisingly, not many have chosen to visit the cinema yet this Friday midday. There's a new movie airing for the third time in just ten minutes, and I consider watching it – now that I have some extra time on my hands. Besides, I've worked hard lately and achieved my own money. I think I can put them to some use. Some ridiculous use, though. But that's okay. It's the small things in life that matters, after all.

* * *

When I've bought the ticket and grabbed some popcorn, I find my way to cinema hall…. My gaze flickers to the ticket in my hand…. Cinema hall six. The film is a romantic cliché, just the way I like it. Not that I'd admit it to anyone, but it's nice once in a while just to…. Watch something stupid and silly, something with comedy and romance – something witty but with loving hints, and some hurt and comfort in it, too.

As I'm walking, I don't focus on where exactly I'm treading, and I only manage to look up when someone bumps against me. I don't react in time to grab the popcorn tighter, and the paper bag slips out of my loose grip – popcorns and salt scattering everywhere. ''I'm sorry,'' I'm quickly to amend, though just about to snarl a 'watch where you're going', when I remember that I'm the one who isn't paying attention to my environment. When I look up, I see something I have never expect to see again.

Amber eyes. Onyx hair. Freckles. The smile. Those eyes. Daisies. Vanilla. Marco.

I don't know what's going on. All I can feel is my heart thundering in my chest, and suddenly my throat feels eerily dry. I feel out of place, like this is another timeline, not my time – not my moment, not my encounter. I'm not good enough. I don't deserve this – this smile.

''I'm really sorry – I didn't see where I was going,'' the taller man apologizes softly. The voice is different – not as light as it used to be, much deeper – but continues to contain the warmth and kindness I've longed for throughout the years. He's a half head taller than I and more robustly built than me.. But it's not the same, and it's not the scrawny kid I had crying into my chest three years ago. I'm about to say something, but decide against it.

He doesn't recognize me.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

But I guess I understand why he doesn't. My eyes aren't the same, I suppose. More lifeless - changed. I colored the bit at the back of my hair to a richer brown – I changed my appearance, because I had changed on the inside, after all. Now I feel like a kid all over again, the same as before, with my deity standing before me – alive. ''I-It's okay,'' I whisper. I try to force any words out – nothing comes. Something swells underneath the skin around my eyes. I can't cry now.

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. ''Are you okay?''

I want to absorb the warmth and keep it to myself. All these bottled and loathsome feelings I kept at bay are back. The guilt – the shame, the want and how much I've missed him. It's all back, just when I thought I had finally left it behind. When I thought it had stopped chasing me. Or – when I finally stopped chasing it, instead. ''Are you okay?'' Marco asks, and I can recognize those eyes _anywhere_, it doesn't matter if he's grown or not the same, I will always recognize him. I avert his eyes stubbornly. I must be making such a scene.

I don't want to be here anymore, even though I know that now my heart is beating for only such. But Marco is not mine anymore, I wasted that chance a long time ago. Is this what this is all about?

I'm so angry.

''Jean?''

Please let the torture stop.

''Jean, is that you?''

I don't answer. He grabs my wrist and guides me to the nearest toilet, and my sight is turning blurry. I don't know that it's the toilet until I hear the click of a lock settled and I manage to take a look around. I'm confused as can be, but I can't really corner that matter anymore, because Marco is standing right in front of me – he's right here, he knows who I am.

''Jean, breathe slowly,'' he says in a reassuring voice – and this is when I realize that I take in heaps of air like there's no tomorrow, even though it feels like I can't breathe. My voice is foreign in my own ears when I whimper a; ''b-but – I… it was—you're…''

Now the tears come, welling up in my eyes, blurring my sight until the only thing I can see are strange patterns. There's nothing I can do to stop it, ''Marco, I'm so sorry.'' The droplets are trickling down my cheeks and jumping off by the edge of my chin. The next thing I know is that I'm covered in warmth and embracing arms, and I helplessly take a fistful of his shirt in my hands as my knees weaken and I cry into his chest, spilling all the apologizes I've had in store for the past years.

''I'm sorry,'' I whisper into the thin fabric, sniffing as my voice breaks at the end. ''I've changed, I'm so sorry,'' I murmur over and over again, and Marco says nothing but embraces me tightly, running his hand along the nape of my neck and the other one along my spine. When I've calmed a bit down, his grip looses, and he moves himself a bit to look at me properly. ''It's okay, Jean.''

''You really are the freckled jesus, aren't you,'' I sniff amidst the heavy in- and exhaling, and I can't help but to laugh weakly. That's what Armin, Eren and I usually tended to say, and what Marco always laughed at. He laughs now, too. ''I've changed too, though.''

''That's not it,'' I murmur, and I have to just stand still and breathe for a while, closing my eyes. When I flutter them open again, Marco is still looking at me, not expectantly, but with a fond look in his eyes. ''I couldn't save you. But I've only changed to become more of an idiot – a cowardly idiot.'' Marco doesn't say anything for a while, but then he laughs again, and I look at him pointedly. ''I hope you won't get mad at me for saying this Jean… But you aren't a strong person. So you can relate to how the weak feel. In addition, you excel in sizing up any situation. You know what is the best to do, and the best you could ever do was to be there for me back then. And you were always there for me, always. That is what I needed. You don't have to get stronger to save anyone, Jean, or to change yourself like that. Being the way you are is fine. People change, for better or for worse. You've changed too, I can see that. But I have too, of course. That's a part of life. What's the most important, though, it that you're true to yourself. Changing isn't a bad thing, only if you change yourself into something you aren't – something that will hurt you or make you betray yourself. You're still **Jean**, even if you've changed a bit.''

He pauses.

''I… Back then, I moved when my parents found out what happened at the school, and I never got the time to say goodbye,'' he says. ''I know it sounds stupid. But I didn't know what to do. While I wanted to leave more than anything else, I still wanted to stay with Eren, Mikasa, Armin and the rest. Specially you.'' I feel empty inside, but at the same time fulfilled. Something… something heavy has been lifted off my shoulders.

''I know I should've come back to greet you again, but… I was scared. I felt like I had betrayed you. I was afraid you'd hate me.''

''And - I left you without a word, and I was scared to confront you again. I'm a coward, too, you know.''

''Marco…,'' I whisper, blinking owlishly. I'm at loss for words.

''I'm the one who has to apologize,'' he says, and now he's got the both of his hands on each side of my shoulders, giving me a light tug.

''You're fine just the way you are… I've always loved you, because you're you,'' he then says. I feel warm. ''…And I still love you.''

This is too cheesy, too cliché – too wonderful and too enlightening, like the cliché movie I was about to watch in the first place. But this is real, and I can't help but to love the silliness, the love hints – and the warmth blossoming in the pit of my stomach, sending a thrill throughout my body. I've never felt happier – or more relieved.

Before I can help myself, I'm leaning forward – pressing my lips awkwardly against his. It's weird, but soft and warm – not what I've thought it'd be like, but it's better than what I can ever think of. He's here. He's alive.

''I've missed you so much,'' I sob, and now the tears are returning and welling up again. ''I love you,'' I say, and it feels like my heart is being clenched inside my chest from bare happiness. I feel so alive, more than I've ever felt.


End file.
